


Cover Me in Kindness

by bedroomdemos



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Bang Chan is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kisses, M/M, Not a lot of kissing though, Please read the author's note for the warnings, Showers, This is more world building than anything because pre-apocalypse woochan is a giant question mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18745024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedroomdemos/pseuds/bedroomdemos
Summary: Sometimes Chan forgets that he doesn't have to always be the leader—especially not around Woojin.





	Cover Me in Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> This is very very loosely based on a dream I had where (TL;DR) I had to force and help Chan shower because he felt defeated in a Maze-Runner-esque world. There was no kissing in the dream — i was just Big Mom Energy. If I'm being honest I could see this getting turned into a series of oneshots in the same AU with various skz interactions but...i'm not going to get ahead of myself
> 
>  
> 
>  **Please read the bullet points below if you're worried about small-but-potential triggers**  
>  • mild talk of bruises  
> • (mild mild talk of unpleasant post-apocalyptic imagery...i think)  
> • a past skz character death (but not chan or woojin) // the way he dies isn't talked about
> 
>  
> 
> ONWARDS!

The alarm in Room 6B blares at twenty past. 

If Woojin focuses on the little window for long enough, he can catch the discolouration from nighttime-black to sunrise-royal. He’s lived in the district for long enough to understand how it works, how it’s meant to protect its inhabitants, and how it feels utterly devoid of life at its very core. The first wake up call is always at 6:20 with an automated alarm. The second one, at 6:30, indicates that everyone should be awake and preparing themselves for the day. The third, at 7 sharp, indicates everyone should be outside of their rooms. 

There are no punishments for being late or staying in; the doors just lock automatically, so if you aren’t out of the room, you don’t eat until the next day. No one is allowed to carry food back to their rooms, either. For a functioning underground facility, cleanliness is key. 

As it has been for the past four days, Woojin is the first one to wake up. A dim light bathes the room in a soft green tint less than a minute after the alarm ceases. In the other bed, on the opposite wall, he sees n motionless lump under the paper-thin blanket. He throws his feet over the edge of the bed and lightly grips the mattress with both hands. “Chan.” 

With no response, Woojin counts to ten in his head. If he didn’t know any better, he would think his bunkmate dead. “Hey. _Channie_.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Woojin’s lip twitches. He should be thankful he even got a response without having to apply physical force or deal with the repercussions; his jaw was still bruised purple from the second day since Chan started acting like this. When he doesn’t move for another thirty seconds, Woojin takes it upon himself to walk across the room and lean over his sleeping figure, visible in Chan’s peripheral. He knows that if he tries to move Chan without explicit permission from Chan himself, he’ll end up with another bruise on his face, or a split lip, or a broken nose. The Commander wouldn’t take kindly to that behaviour, especially in the span of a week and from the two oldest in their section. 

Chan’s eyes are already open when Woojin looks over. “You need to shower. They’re going to close the doors in the next hour—” 

“I don’t need it.” Chan’s words cut through the air between them. 

Yesterday, their section was randomly selected for the Commander’s inspection. With Chan as the leader, he shouldn’t appear out of order, but he hadn’t showered yesterday or the day before either. This would have been the third day in a row. 

Woojin presses his lips together and inhales deeply. “If you don’t get up and come with me to the showers,” he says in his deadliest voice, “I will personally tie your hands and ankles with a bedsheet, drag your ass in there, and watch you wash your back with your limbs tied.” 

The silence lasts only moments longer before Chan gives his reply. “If you want me to shower, you’re going to have to carry me over there yourself.” 

“Fine.” Woojin throws the bedsheets off Chan’s form and flips him from his side onto his back. He watches his leader close his eyes and leave his body as deadweight. Woojin slides an arm under the back of his knees and another under the curve of his back, and when he moves to lift him, he loses his grip and they both fall back onto the bed. Woojin curses under his breath. “You’re not making this easy, are you?”

“I don’t need this shower, Woojin,” Chan says, but Woojin calls bullshit on the statement. He tries a different approach. With Chan still being uncooperative, Woojin slides his legs off the bed and holds his upper body upright in order to throw his leader over his shoulder. 

This approach works better than he expected. Chan is still heavy on his shoulder, his muscle weight placing an unnecessary amount of pressure on his neck, but Woojin forces himself to keep walking until their shower room. He drops Chan onto a bench and is met with an icy stare when he pulls away. 

Woojin doesn’t have time for this. He starts pulling off the black pyjamas the District gave him. “We have less time to shower now, so you know we to do it together. You’re going to stink up our room if you don’t.” 

There are only four showers for the eight people in their section, and everyone is lenient about their belongings so no one bothers to lock their lockers. The younger kids in their section have no problem showering together—saving both water and time—but Chan has made it explicit that he never wanted to shower with Woojin. “Chan,” he tries again. “Come to the showers.” 

There’s no response. He throws his pyjamas into the locker, wraps a towel around his waist, and takes out the metal containers they were all given for shampoo and body wash. Woojin doesn’t want to deal with the Commander again, and he’s tired of watching Chan sulk around the District without talking about what’s wrong when everyone knows what’s wrong. He inhales, ready to finally yell at Chan to put himself together, but when he turns around all he does is freeze. 

Whatever mask had been on Chan’s face since the incident somehow slid off while Woojin wasn’t looking. The anger leaves his body. One of the pipes on the ceiling of the shower room opens to let out pent up steam, hissing in the silence. From just outside Woojin’s line of focus, he sees noticeably-shaky hands. “I can’t do it myself.” 

Woojin lets out a quiet exhale; Chan’s words are a form of permission, and that’s all he really needs. He sits beside Chan on the bench, bunching the bottom hem of the sleep shirt in his hands and easing it up, over, and off. 

The last time Chan broke down like this, they had just been found by the District Commander. Everything reeked of death. Everyone smelled of both old blood and new, of rot and dirt. They were out of ammunition. If it wasn’t for the Commander, their group would have died from starvation. The first morning after they arrived in their bunk they were allowed to sleep in, and the Commander instructed the nine of them to shower and clean themselves up. Chan didn’t want to move, but he also didn’t complain when Woojin manhandled him to the showers back then. 

Now, Woojin moves to crouch in front of Chan now, gentler than that first time, and Chan lifts himself off the bench just enough for his pants and boxers to slide off. He lifts either foot out of each pant leg and throws his sleep clothes into the same locker. 

“You’ve grown soft,” Chan comments when Woojin takes Chan’s trembling hands in his. 

Woojin keeps his gaze on their bare feet, the room coming up behind him—anything but Chan’s face. His mind focuses on the way Chan grips his hands back with a light pressure. Once they’re under one of the showerheads, he responds while adjusting the heat and pressure settings. “I can’t say I see the progression.” 

“I’m not you.” 

“I know.” Woojin presses a button and the showerhead flares to life. It’s a powerful, soothing jet of water, shot out at an angle. He gives Chan a look, waiting for him to step into the stream of water, but all he does is take a tentative step back. 

Chan brings his hands up to hug himsef. Not making eye contact, he juts his chin towards the water. “You first.” 

“Not unless you’re with me,” Woojin says, and he knows he’s being stubborn about it, If he showers first while Chan just stands there, the higher the chances of Chan backing out of showering become. More oxen silence rests between them. 

Shower time is ticking away, so Woojin gives up. He takes a step forward, grabs Chan’s forearms, and pulls him into the shower. Warm water runs over their bodies and directly over Chan’s head, so he has to uncross his arms to push soaked bangs away from his face. He moves his head out of the water in order to glare at Woojin properly, but he doesn’t step away. 

Once Woojin ducks his head under the stream he immediately reaches blindly for the wall, looking for the large bottle of shampoo locked into the wall like it would be at a hotel. Chan’s hand grips Woojin’s wrist to guide him to the pump. “Thank you.” 

The response is a noise of acknowedgement. Woojin finishes up rather quickly: shampoo hair, rinse hair, wash body, rinse body. Then it’s Chan’s turn. 

“Come on.” Again, Woojin takes Chan’s hands and brings him back into the stream. “Hair or body first?” 

Chan meets his gaze with sad eyes and a set mouth. “Hair, I guess.” 

Woojin pumps shampoo into his palm, rubs his hands together. He turns to face Chan and starts carding his fingers through his leaders hair, massaging his scalp the same way he used to do for the younger kids. Chan doesn’t close his eyes, but Woojin keeps staring at the suds in Chan’s hair. 

“Don’t you usually keep your eyes closed when people do this?” Woojin asks. 

“You used to ask Jisung and them to turn around,” Chan says. “They would have their back to you while you washed their hair.” 

Woojin has options. He can tell the truth, stay quiet, or tell a lie.

“I wanted a chance to look at you without getting nervous.” 

Chan stiffens. It’s a truth, but Can can make the inference on his own. He isn’t looking to do it himself. “You can look at me anyways.” 

Woojin massages Chan’s scalp. “Not like this, idiot.” 

For a moment, Chan keeps his eyes open. Woojin slows his fingers, rubbing in a more circular motion, then he huffs a bit of air through his nose and his eyes flutter shut. If they weren’t in the shower Woojin would be blushing; he probably is anyways, but at least the heat from the water covers it up. 

The District was what gave Chan a newfound rough exterior, both physically and emotionally. Exercise is a mandatory and sometimes extensive schedule of physical labour and workout regimens. Chan was always built, but Woojin pays a little too much attention to the changes: his abs and Adonis belt are more defined, his arm muscles shift visibly when he rolls his shoulder, he stands a little straighter with the role of leader under his belt. 

Before the Commander took them in, he was more frantic and noticeably emotional, expressing his relief or anger or sadness in the moment. (Woojin is the only one that’s seen Chan shed any tears; happiness is a little harder to come by in all of them.) The label of leader made him strong, but that strength has seeped into the wrong places. 

“I’m done,” Woojin says, slowing his fingers. “Want me to help you rinse?” 

Chan’s eyes flutter open. His voice comes out quiet next to the water. “I’ll do it.” 

Woojin reluctantly takes his fingers out of Chan’s hair. He hasn’t cut his hair in the a long time even though the Commander suggests it—no one in their section has—and his has grown to curl around his ears. Before everything went wrong, when a normal university education existed, Chan dyed his hair blond. There was no way to cover up his roots. He didn’t want them covered up, anyways. 

He watches as Chan steps forward slightly, dipping his head under the shower stream. His back muscles ripple with every sweep of his fingers through his own hair, and it takes Woojin all of his own willpower not to run his hands over toned shoulder blades and built biceps. 

Chan turns around when he’s finished. “Now what?” 

“Body wash. I’ll do it.” Woojin crouches and pours a glob out of its bottle. He lathers it between his hans. “Move away from the water.” 

Chan does. Woojin kneels and starts washing his legs; with how fast showers have become, Woojin knows the legs are usually neglected. When he starts washing Chan’s thighs, he’s doing his best to keep himself composed. Chan, however, voices exactly what they’re both thinking. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen this angle of you,” he says quietly. 

Woojin presses his lips into a thin line. “Not like there’s time to do anything now—”

“No, I know.” 

“Give me your hands. You can wash your own ass.” 

“What, can’t handle it?” 

Woojin’s lip twitches. To hear Chan speak the most he has in _days_ , and it’s to tease him about a lack of sexual activity. He grabs the bottle and pours more into his hands for Chan’s torso as Chan takes care of his—parts. Woojin rubs along Chan’s stomach and lower back first, then around the waist, then his shoulder blades, then his chest, and that’s when the tears finally fall. 

Woojin doesn’t notice them right away. Had Woojin not been washing Chan’s chest, he never would have caught the small spasms from his stuttered breathing. He spends a little more time on Chan’s chest, washing in small circles, slowly, with his gaze fixed on Chan’s lowered head. “You need to stop beating yourself up over it.” 

Chan sniffles. He doesn’t look up. “I have a right to, Woojin. It’s my fault.”

Woojin stops rubbing his chest. “No you don’t and _no it’s not_. Stop shouldering the blame.” 

“it’s not that easy.” 

“I’m not saying it is—”

“But you don’t understand, anyways.” Chan’s voice is a little louder now. He looks up slightly at Woojin, eyes glistening with falling tears. “He was my responsibility, Woojin. I was supposed to take care of him until the end, and the ‘end’ wasn’t—it was never supposed to be death—not here—but now Jeongin is _dead_ , and I’m the one that didn’t keep an eye out for him when we went out onto the field that day.”

“You’re not the only one torn up about his death, you know.” He tries to continue washing Chan’s chest, bothered by the accusation, but Chan grabs both his wrists. 

“Then why do I feel like I’m the only one suffering?” he asks. “Everyone else is walking around this compound as though nothing happened—you included. You’re all still functioning. Why am I the only one that’s bothered enough to end up in a rut? And then you say I should stop shouldering this? If I don’t, then _who will_?” 

Silence falls over them again. Chan’s chest heaves with every breath; Woojin racks his brain for something to say. After another moment, Woojin brings his face closer to Chan’s and keeps his voice low and calm as he speaks, thinking about his every word and the potentiality of setting off the ticking time bomb inside Chan’s chest. 

“You haven’t seen how anyone has been doing because you’ve been holed up in our room,” he starts. His eyes are on Chan and Chan’s eyes are anywhere lower than Woojin’s face, but Woojin doesn’t dare to look anywhere else in case their eyes lock. “Think about that. I’ve had to sneak you the bare minimum in food because you don’t leave when you’re supposed to, and I’ve heard your stomach growling at night. Putting yourself through this isn’t good for everyone else, sure, because you’re the leader, but it’s not good for _yourself either._ ”

Another pause. Chan finally looks up, his breathing a little steadier; if Woojin met Chan post-destruction, the chances of him understanding Chan’s body the way he does would be slim to none. But he knows the way Chan’s chest expands and contracts in a subtler way. Whether he’s still crying or not, Woojin doesn’t comment on them. Crying is good sometimes. 

“I was with Jeongin when everything first happened,” Woojin reminds him. “I miss him just as much as you do. I don’t want to hear you wallowing about how you’re the only one dealing with any of this, because you aren’t, and everyone is here for you if you would only let them.” He doesn’t know exactly when hot tears began pooling in his eyes, but now they’re falling over and running down his cheeks. 

Woojin gives in and looks at Chan’s hands. He feels Chan loosen his grip on his wrists, still suspended between their chests. “Remember the first few days after the plague hit? You found us inside the basement of that kitschy house near Jeongin’s high school. We still had some food, but it wouldn’t be enough to last us as long as we’ve been alive now. I’d always split our portions so that he had more, but he would split his own portion in half and return it to me. He was stubborn.” 

“I remember taking turns with you,” Chan added, “when we had to carry Jeongin back to the others. His legs were so weak because of that decision… when we got back, I was surprised, too. Jisung somehow managed to take care of them all while I was gone.” 

“For two whole days,” Woojin said. 

“For two whole days.”

Woojin hasn’t looked Chan for this long since before the Commander took them in. Had they still been in Chan’s dingy basement apartment, showering in a bathroom that can barely fit three people, Woojin would probably take note of all the beauty still left in Chan’s features, but now all he sees is a hard, permanently clenched jaw (that is now relaxed for the first time in months) and cold, dark eyes (that are now glistening with an acceptance of grief). “Ah… we’re losing time. We should finish up soon.” 

Chan blinks. “Yeah… I guess we should.” His lips part, then shut, then part again. “Woojin, I’m—”

Chan barely has time to utter an apology before Woojin leans forward and cuts him off with a kiss. It’s just lips touching lips at first—Woojin doesn’t know what to make of the lack of response, but just as he starts pulling back Chan tightens his grip on Woojin’s wrists and pulls him back. Chan kisses him again, lips slightly parted, and something inside Woojin cracks. He lets out an involuntary moan. 

Everything turns to desperation. It’s been ages since Woojin’s been able to have any sort of alone time with Chan that didn’t involve sleeping in separate beds in a cold, impersonal bunker. It’s been ages since they’ve given each other any form of physical comfort, or since they’ve taken their last shower together, or since Chan’s last cry. 

It’s been _ages_. 

In the midst of sloppy kisses and grasping at one another’s skin in an attempt to bring the other person closer, Woojin’s mind returns to a time when the two of them were in university, in the class where they first met. They had been project partners. One day, when they were supposed to go to the library, Chan had asked if Woojin could come over to work on the assignment instead. It turned out that Chan was bedridden with a fever and wanted to still do work from home. 

Woojin had forced him to stay in bed and stay far away from any work. He made a quick trip to the cornerstore and bought the necessary ingredients for his family’s ‘sick soup.’ 

“Why are you taking care of me?” Chan asked Woojin even as he drained the bowl dry. “We’re just partners for a project. You didn’t have to do this.” 

Woojin had given him a look. “You’re someone who takes on too much and doesn’t know when to stop or ask for help—of any sort—so I’ve taken it upon myself to care for you.” As an afterthought, he added, “At least until you get better.” 

“Do you do this for everyone?” 

“Only the people I care about,” he responded, and the look on Chan’s face had been unreadable. 

Chan pulls his lips away first, but keeps their foreheads and noses touching. “Woojin.” 

“Chan?” 

“Thank you.” An inhale, almost drowned out by the rush of water. “For taking care of me.” 

“You know I care about you,” Woojin says, even though the words ‘care about’ are a sad excuse for what he really wants to say. He takes a deep breath in for himself. 

“…I know.” Chan runs a thumb over the healing bruise on Woojin’s jaw. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You know I care, too, right?—About you.” 

“I know.” Woojin presses one last kiss to Chan’s lips. Love, in such a way, is a hard thing for Chan to come by, and this isn’t a hidden fact. Woojin has known this since the beginning, in between the words both spoken and unspoken. 

The Districts are cold, and the Commander has proven to be colder, but they have each other, and that’s all that really matters—even if it's just for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a lot shorter and the kiss scene was supposed to be a bit longer than this and i'm sorry because i got caught up in my own half-assed world building


End file.
